


First Do No Harm

by Tartlette1



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt / Comfort, HurtBrock, HurtTrent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:40:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23069395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tartlette1/pseuds/Tartlette1
Summary: In Trent Sawyer, Bravo Team had the best medic in all of DEVGRU.   He'd saved their lives and the lives of many others countless times.  But what happens when the medic needs a medic to save his own life?
Comments: 92
Kudos: 99





	1. Chapter 1

Brock loved any sort of test. He always had. 

Ever since he was a child, he found personal validation in being really good at something. There was a flush of pride in being the best. Pride not just in the glory or praise from others, but from the effort. Not just being naturally gifted, but being willing to push yourself harder than anyone else. To want it more, to constantly test your limits. To know that you had earned it by determination, sheer force of will, sacrifice, and having outworked everyone else. 

His personal drive and work ethic had served him well. He’d been an accomplished athlete in college and an excellent student. Never one to sit back and let the rest catch up, he was always looking for the next challenge. This part of his personality. This stubborn intensity and unyielding determination, mixed with a strong sense of patriotism and personal sacrifice, made him a perfect fit for the military, specifically special forces. 

Brock knew that his quiet nature and lack of bravado lead most people to underestimate him, or even overlook him. While that could have undermined his self-esteem, it wasn’t something he dwelled on. He knew what he was capable of and he never doubted it. Brock’s self-confidence could have been interpreted as arrogance. But, his easy calm, patience and affable personality, mixed with his selflessness, tempered any semblance of arrogance. 

But this. This thing that was happening right now was testing everything about him. Everything that he thought he was good at. And many things he’d never given much thought to. He knew what was happening was an absolute doomsday scenario. Somehow, it was now up to him to save Trent’s life. Not with gunfire, firepower or daring feats of physical endurance. Rather, he had to be the medic that Trent desperately needed.

Trent had done his best to walk him through it. But, with his throat constricting, difficulty breathing, and decreasing consciousness before he was fully out, there hadn’t been enough time for them to spend more than maybe 10 minutes, 15 tops, discussing what needed to be done. Maybe that was for the best? 

If there was more time to dwell on what Brock was about to do – what Trent absolutely needed him to do – Brock might have spent that time focusing too much on what could go wrong. Instead, he just needed to focus on the instructions he had been given. Visualize and execute. 

Both men knew that there was no other option. Neither of them had any idea what had happened to the rest of Bravo, or whether help was on the way. It was absolutely certain that Trent didn’t have the luxury of time to wait. It needed to be done. 

Trent had understood immediately what was happening to him. He knew he didn’t have much time to give Brock the information he’d need to carry it out. He had to use the precious amount of time they had before he lost consciousness and stopped breathing. He had to transfer his medical knowledge, quickly and calmly to Brock so that his brother could save his life. 

Brock had done what he could to wash off his hands, careful to use only enough to get rid of the grime, but mindful of saving enough since they’d probably need it later. He had quickly prepped the area around the incision site and laid out what he needed from the medical kit. He knew Trent would have sterilized everything before the mission. But he wished he’d thought to ask if they needed to be sterilized further before he began. Thinking it better safe than sorry, he used a small amount of iodine from the medical kit to wipe the scalpel and tube. 

Hopefully, help was on the way and they’d both be out of here before any infection had a chance to set it. If not, he had some antibiotics that he’d administer to Trent once it was done and while they waited for extract. 

Brock had been verbally repeating the same mantra a few times now, his voice growing in confidence with each repetition. 

“Neck fully extended. Follow the line Trent helped him mark out. Half inch horizontal incision. Be sure the incision is deep enough to extend though the membrane. Not too far. Just enough to access the airway. Dissect the opening. Insert the straw two inches into the trachea. Give a couple breaths into the tube.” And Jesus, if after all that, if Trent still wasn’t breathing, he’d need to start CPR. 

Don’t think about what could go wrong. Only focus on what needs to be done. Visualize and execute. 

Snapping on the blue nitrile gloves, Brock took 60 seconds to slow his breathing, lower his heart rate and steady his hands. He would have preferred another minute or so to fully steady himself before picking up the scalpel. As if that extra 60 seconds would somehow turn into 4 years of medical school. But, he couldn’t wait, Trent’s slow and labored breathing had stopped. He needed to act now. 

With the scalpel in his hand, he made the incision. Exhaling a short breath as the words escaped his lips. “Please, don’t let me kill him”.


	2. Chapter 2

In his years as an operator, Brock had seen the horrors of war up close and personal. He knew its’ smells, sounds and images. 

He knew the difference between the smell of blood and the smell of death. He could tell simply by a man’s cry whether a wound was fatal. He knew what grenades, 50 caliber rounds, rifles and automatic weapons could do to a person. He’d seen bodies fall in a cloud of pink mist. Limbs torn apart by IEDs. Before even joining Bravo, he’d seen friends die, holding them as they took their final breath. 

As an operator, he’d spent almost his entire adult life taking lives from various distances. And when shit got really real, he’d taken lives with his bare hands in order to save his own and those of his brothers. 

It was primitive, inhumane, grotesque, and soul destroying. 

When the nightmares came, and they came often, he’d wake up screaming, shivering, breathless. And grateful. 

Grateful for the nightmares. For it meant that there was still a part of him, the real him, that remained. A remnant of he used to be. Who he hoped he still was and that he would be again when all this was over. 

He’d never said it aloud, but he clung to that hope. In his darkest moments, he was terrified that a day would come, sometime in the future, when his nightmares would stop, and what that would mean. Would he be able to live with himself? Would he be lost forever? 

Brock had joined the military thinking he needed a challenge, wanting to make a difference to his country, defending the helpless, protecting the vulnerable, ridding the world of evil and the constant threats to humanity. To save lives. To somehow try to forget that he’d been unable to save his own brother. Rationally, he knew that he’d done all of those things and then some. He told himself that for every life lost at his hands, by his weapon, that he’d saved countless others. 

He did this job so that others didn’t have to. He was the sin eater. 

And if the day ever came that his nightmares stopped, where he no longer felt the weight of his actions in his soul, he promised himself that he he’d walk away from it all and never look back. That he would spend the rest of his life atoning for his sins. Finding other ways to better the lives of those in his community and the world around him. 

But until that day came, he had to believe, as a matter of self-preservation, that his actions made a difference in the world. That innocent lives were saved. And even when he didn’t understand or agree with the mission, when he questioned its’ value, he’d still be there, doing everything he could, and everything that was needed, to keep his brothers safe. To ensure that they always came home. That was the job. Not just the job. His purpose. 

Brock was constantly looking for ways to atone, to save lives and tip the scales away from the lives he took. Yet despite his years in the field, everything he’d seen and done, he’d never been in the position that he now found himself in. 

Brock had watched Trent perform countless procedures over the years. He’d seen in-the-field blood transfusions, skin stitched up without anesthetic, bones reset, lungs inflated, wounds cleaned, and improvised tourniquets applied to prevent massive blood loss. 

It hadn’t taken long for Brock to become Trent’s unofficial assistant medic. Trent respected that Brock never hesitated and he was never rattled by what he saw. Where Sonny, Clay and Jason were explosive and reactionary. Brock had an ability to keep his emotions locked away. He processed adrenaline differently. 

Brock had the enviable ability to detach from the horror around him without losing his compassion or humanity. He didn’t panic or lash out. He could do whatever Trent asked of him and their bond meant that they could communicate with few words. 

With his calm personality, unending amount of inner strength, and limitless self-sacrifice, Trent firmly believed that Brock would have made a very good medic if he hadn’t already found the thing he was always meant to be, the Navy’s top K-9 handler.

Assisting Trent over the years, Brock had done everything from holding wounds open so Trent could clamp damaged arteries, to applying pressure to various wounds while the blood soaked his hands, and administering chest compressions until the sweat poured off him and his arms went numb. But, Trent had always been there to guide him. To tell him when to stop. When to keep going. What to do next. The decisions were Trent’s alone. Trent had the training, the years of experience, and all the skills, knowledge and history. 

But Trent couldn’t help him now. Because it was Trent that was lying there in the dirt, shrapnel having ripped apart part of his neck, the swelling causing his throat to constrict. The lack of oxygen having turned his lips blue as he lost consciousness. 

Brock had never even seen what it was that he was about to attempt. Trent had tried his best to explain the procedure in the short amount of time, between gasping breaths, before he lost consciousness. But how could those few minutes possibly be enough? 

Trent didn’t have to say just exactly how dangerous this procedure was. It was obvious to Brock. He was having a hard time not focusing on the worst-case scenarios that ran through his mind on a vicious loop. There were just so many risks, with the potential to damage the vocal cords, the larynx, and the important nerves in the neck. And there was no one else here. 

He was alone with no one who could help talk him through it. No one to tell him whether his incision would be too deep or not deep enough

His comms had been destroyed in the explosion. He didn’t have the time to think about the rest of Bravo and where they might be. Whether any of them had even survived the blast. He didn’t have time to think of his own pain, that was just starting to announce itself in his chest. He had to act. 

________________________

As he made the incision, slicing the razor-sharp scalpel through his best friend’s throat, he felt himself detach from the scene, and an inner strength took hold. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t stop. He didn’t second guess the surprising lack of blood left by the incision. He used his fingers to slightly push open the incision, carefully threading the thin tube into the trachea. He sucked at the tube to test it for air coming back at him. Believing that he could feel it, that air was getting through, he checked for a pulse and was relieved to find it. Although it was weaker than he would have liked. 

He had no idea what to expect. How would he know if it had worked? How long would it take? Would he need to try it again? Could he breathe into the tube for his friend? Would that even work to get him the oxygen he needed to keep him alive? Brock wasn’t normally one to panic, but he could feel the unease and doubts swirling through him. He needed to do something, but he didn’t know what that was. He really needed Trent to tell him. Taking hold of Trent's hand, he begged him to open his eyes. "come on brother, come back to me".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry that it took me so long to come back to this. Obviously, the world went a little crazy since I started this fic, and I struggled a bit with trying to adjust to what has been going on around me. I hope you are all doing okay, or as well as can be expected. And if this fic provides you with a brief distraction from reality, then I'm very happy. The next chapter should be up later this week.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 picks up where we left off. It also incorporates a flashback to how our (my) two favourites ended up in their current predicament. It's a bit of a filler chapter to set the scene.

After securing the thin tracheotomy tube, and being somewhat certain that Trent was breathing on his own, pulling in enough oxygen that his lips were no longer the tell-tale bluish colour, Brock turned his attention to applying pressure dressings against the shrapnel wounds on the side of Trent’s neck and jaw. He was relieved to find, to his untrained eye, that they didn’t appear to be too deep. At least, there wasn’t a lot of blood, and he was able to stem what there was fairly quickly. 

Running his hands over Trent’s arms and legs, there didn’t seem to be any broken bones. At least nothing obvious that he could feel poking through the skin, or out of alignment. He wanted to remove the tac vest to check for rib fractures or a rigid abdomen indicating internal injuries. However, he figured for now, given what was likely headed directly for them, it was better to leave it on. Trent was probably going to need it. He could ask about internal injuries when Trent regained consciousness. There wasn’t much he could do about it right now anyway, as that was way outside of his medical capabilities. 

Depending on how long there were going to be here, he’d probably have to start an IV with antibiotics to stave off any infection. And possibly a blood bag in the case of internal bleeding. He felt reasonably confident with his ability to do both, but he wasn’t exactly sure on timing and when they would be needed. He added them to his mental list of things to ask Trent about when he regained consciousness. 

Brock knew that once Trent regained consciousness, he wouldn’t be able to talk with the trach tube in place. Whatever discussions they needed to have, about how Trent was feeling, whether he had any other injuries that might need attention, and what the plan was to get them the hell out of their current predicament, would be one-way discussions, with Brock In the uncomfortable spot of having to do all the talking. Trent would be limited to relying on simple head and hand gestures. 

Brock wasn’t scared of taking lead, nor did he doubt his ability to do so. He trusted his training. He knew what his body was physically capable of. But, more than anything else, he trusted his mind to work the problem. He would just need to remember, that while his brain was working away at solutions, and plotting several steps ahead, rather than internalizing his thought making processes and decisions, as he usually did, he would need to communicate some of these things to Trent. 

Squeezing his friend’s shoulder, Brock heard himself whisper, “you’re okay buddy, everything is going to be okay”. Was this for Trent’s benefit, or his own? Probably both, if he were being honest. 

Brock could still feel the adrenaline running through him. 

Already someone who possessed an above average strength of observation, the adrenaline made him hyper-focused, finely attuned to his surroundings. He never felt more calm and in control than he did in the heat of battle. He could sort through extraneous noises, smells and chaos, discarding what he didn’t need, what didn’t factor, and pick out what didn’t belong. His instincts picking up on any potential threats. Knowing with certainty that his body would respond immediately, doing what it was trained to. 

Brock’s instincts, and the way he channeled adrenaline into a calm, methodical focus, were two of his greatest strengths 

Using his arm to wipe the sweat and grime from forehead, Brock sat back on his heels and checked his watch. He was taken aback by just how little time had passed. Yet, he knew he shouldn’t be surprised. In a war zone, things can, and most often do, go to hell quite quickly. 

He estimated that maybe only 45 minutes had passed since he’d last been in contact with HAVOC or the rest of Bravo. During that time, an explosion had ripped apart the SUV he and Trent were riding in, he’d had to extricate himself and Bravo 4 from the smoking wreckage, find cover, and perform field surgery on his best friend. In the aftermath, the smell of burning metal and gasoline lingered on his clothes, his skin, and in his nasal passages. 

________

It had been a planned vehicle interdiction which had been carefully plotted to capture an HVT. 

To execute the takedown, Bravo Team had split up into three separate vehicles. Bravo One and Six in the lead vehicle, followed not far behind by Bravo Two and Three. 

Bravo Four and Five had splintered off, with Brock at the wheel of a non-descript late model SUV. Taking back alleys and narrow side streets, they sped through the mostly bombed out and derelict part of what had once been a thriving city in Venezuela not that many years or lifetimes ago. 

About three miles from the interdiction point, a blast, probably from a low level IED, catapulted the vehicle, end over end, before it came to rest on its roof. It had, at first, taken a moment for Brock’s muddled brain to catch up with the smell of burning metal and heat coming from the vehicle. Despite the confusion, his instincts and adrenaline took over. 

Cutting himself free of the seatbelt, he went to work on extricating Trent. It hadn’t been easy. Trent, who by his size and build, already outweighed Brock by a not insignificant amount, had not yet regained consciousness, and as such was dead weight. 

Trent also had a pretty obvious neck and head wound that had Brock could tell needed immediate attention. Unfortunately, there had been no time to do any sort of triage inside the vehicle. He also knew they couldn’t stay where they were. 

Whoever planned the explosion, as well as anyone within a rather large radius, would have heard the blast. And it was unlikely that anyone in the immediate vicinity would be rushing to offer assistance. It was far more likely that there were any number of individuals nearby who would be looking to finish the job. 

Brock had no intention of sticking around to take them on from his current location. He needed to get Trent somewhere relatively safe. In a position that Brock could defend, while waiting for back-up to arrive. 

Immediately following the explosion, unable to reach anyone on his comms, he knew it was unlikely that HAVOC had eyes on their location. Given how far away they were from the interdiction point at the time of the explosion, and knowing that the range of the drone coverage meant the primary focus was on the HVT vehicle, Brock had to assume HAVOC was initially unaware that Bravo Four and Five had been taken out. 

However, he was certain that once HAVOC was alerted that the GPS tracker was no longer showing his position, and that they no longer had communication with Bravo Four and Five, they’d gets eyes over his last known location and would find the smoking remnants of the explosion. He knew the rest of Bravo would be coming for them. In the meantime, he just needed to hold off whatever else was coming their way. 

Spotting a small two-story structure at the end of the street, approximately 100m from the smoking SUV, he contorted himself to reach around into the backseat of the vehicle, grabbing the two small packs. 

A quick check to ensure he had everything he needed from the vehicle, and that there was nothing identifying left behind, he began working on dragging Trent’s limp and unresponsive body from the vehicle. Once they were both clear of the wreckage he was able, with a surge of strength and vocal groan indicative of the effort, to get Trent hoisted up over his shoulder. 

Quickly making his way to deserted looking building he’d previously spotted, he set Trent down inside one of the rooms of the first floor and then worked on clearing the rest of the building. Once satisfied that they were alone, he was able to get his first real look at the injuries to Trent’s neck. 

As Trent started to come around, it didn’t take long for both of them to realize something was really wrong. But Trent, knew immediately what exactly the problem was. As medic in the military, decisiveness was key. Identify the problem, determine the solution, and act. Don’t hesitate. There’s no luxury of time. He could feel himself struggling to breathe and could tell by the effort and discomfort that his throat was swelling and constricting. 

Trent’s fixated his gaze on Brock, with his voice hoarse and weak, “Brother, I’m going to need your help here, and you’re not going to like what I need you to do”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: Chapter 4 picks up in flashback mode where chapter 3 left off. Chapter 5 will get back on track and into the present. Chapter 5 should be up in a few days.

Trent knew there wasn’t much time. He could feel his throat constricting. The difficulty swallowing was matched by an inability to gather in enough air with each labored breath. As he took in his surroundings, he knew the circumstances were less than ideal. 

The abandoned building they’d taken cover in had clearly seen better days. It was nothing more than a dirt floor, littered with random bits of rusted metal, a fair amount of strewn garbage, and greenery that snaked through various cracks in the walls and floors in an attempt to reclaim the crumbling structure. There was nothing to suggest it was anything other than a cesspool of germs. 

Trent had treated open wounds and gunshots in environments similarly compromised. He knew that infection was almost assuredly guaranteed. He didn’t relish the idea that his throat and neck would be opened up to whatever airborne debris and bacteria were floating about. But, it needed to be done. 

Trent knew that Brock had been caught by surprise with the news that he needed to perform an improvised tracheotomy on his closest friend. In another situation, and another time, the visual of Brock’s eyes widening in response to the news, would have been comical. “Trent, are you sure, man? Because that seems like a really bad idea. The guys should be here soon. Is there something else we can do that can buy enough time?”

His voice weakened as he struggled to draw breathe, Trent knew what he was asking. “No. This is the only option”. Cutting off any further discussion, and surprised by the amount of effort it took just to raise his right arm, Trent ignored how much his hand trembled as he marked the location on this throat. “Here, below the Adam’s Apple. Grab a pen and mark it”. 

The realization of what was happening immediately set in and Brock responded as his training had prepared him. He would do exactly what his brother was ordering. What his brother needed from him. That didn’t mean that his hands didn’t fumble slightly as reached for the small medical bag Trent packed for every mission. It also didn’t stop him from muttering quietly to himself with some disbelief that this was actually happening. Spitting out the only word that summed up the situation. “Fuck”. 

After marking out a small horizontal line, Brock used his phone to snap a quick photo of the area. Turning the screen around, he showed Trent what he’d marked out. “Is that right?”. 

Voice reduced to a whisper, Trent, in an effort to control his limited breathing, just nodded. “Yeah, that’s good. Now, get the scalpel, you know the one”. His words coming now with staggered effort, and sharp pauses in between. “There’s some tubing in the kit. You’ll need the thinnest one. Cut it down to about 4 inches in length”. 

With his peripheral vision starting to grey out, and feeling himself starting to disconnect from his body, Trent concentrated on giving the final bit of instructions. “Once you start the cut, don’t hesitate. It’s should be about a half inch in depth. You’ll know when you’re through the membrane. Use your fingers to open up the incision. Insert the tube, about 2 inches into the throat”. 

Brock could feel his stomach lurch at Trent’s instructions. Somehow, the word “membrane” echoed throughout his mind, driving home that he was actually going to be slicing through his friend’s flesh. Brock had never considered himself squeamish. He’d assisted Trent on various procedures in the field, had his hands coated with the blood of his brothers and seen flesh torn apart. But, somehow this was different. There was something both clinical and primitive about what he was about to do. That was also an important distinction. It was something he was going to have to do. Not assist. But actively perform himself.

Stamping down on the uneasiness in his stomach, Brock focused all of his attention on Trent’s instructions. He hoped, for now that there was no one out there waiting to get the drop on them, or about to burst through the open doorway in a hail of gunfire. If that came to pass in the middle of the procedure, they’d be helpless and the only thing he’d have to protect his brother with would be his own body. 

Brock knew it was impossible to hold a scalpel in one hand and an HK-416 in another. So, with his attention entirely on his patient, he laid his weapon down, but still within his reach. Using some water from his canteen to wash his hands, he snapped on the blue nitrile gloves and picked up the scalpel. 

It was obvious to both men that Trent was struggling to hang on, finding it near impossible to croak out the last bit of instructions that Brock would need before his airway was fully compromised. “When the tube is in, give it two breaths to check for airflow”. 

Fearing, but needing to know the answer, Brock dared himself to ask “how will I know if it worked?”

With a whisper of a smile, Trent responded. “If I’m not dead, then it worked”

Placing his hand over Brock’s wrist, Trent could feel his brother’s heart beating. It was strong and steady. While he could see the fear in his brother’s eyes, Brock’s heart rate told the truth. He was calm and focused. Just like Trent knew he would be. With his vision cloudy and distorted, and his breath now coming in short, shallow bursts, Trent tightened his grip on Brock’s wrist. Brock looked back at him and nodded. His other hand coming up to rest on Trent’s. Brock gave a reassuring squeeze and a slight smile that he hoped conveyed everything he wanted to say but couldn’t find the words to express. 

An understanding passed between them. Ever since they first started working together, they’d had the ability to communicate with little dialogue. They understood each other better than they knew their own families. 

Attempting to lighten the mood, and deflect from the gravity of the situation, Brock’s spoke with uncharacteristic emotion, a slight break in his voice evident. “You’re are so going to owe me a case of Whiskey for this”. 

Trent, knew what Brock was really saying, what they were both trying to say. Instead, he fixated his gaze, locking eyes with his brother. In his final words, before his breath was taken from him, Trent whispered with all of the confidence and love that he could convey, his breathe hitching as he struggled to say what he needed Brock to know. 

“I trust you. No matter what happens. Thank-you. For everything”.


	5. Chapter 5

Just like Tom Petty said, waiting is the hardest part. 

Brock had no idea how long Trent should be out for once the tracheotomy tube was in place. Was it a good sign that it was taking a bit of time for Trent to come around? Or, was it an indicator that something worse was going on that he had yet to regain consciousness? 

Focusing only on what he knew and could control, Brock reassured himself, with repeated glances at the rise and fall of Trent’s chest, that he was drawing breath. He timed the inhale and exhales and was relieved to find they were holding steady at regular intervals. While the breathing appeared shallow, it followed a consistent rhythm. 

The neck wound made it difficult to monitor Trent’s pulse, so instead he grabbed a hold of his friend’s wrist and counted. The heart rate seemed rapid to him, but it was reassuringly steady. Brock figured a beating heart was better than the alternative. Besides, if his friend’s heart stopped, beyond chest compressions, Brock knew he’d be way outside of his depth in terms of alternatives to keep his friend’s heart beating. 

He felt a chill run up his spine at the thought of all the things that could still go wrong. Would the tracheotomy be enough to keep his friend breathing? Were the lungs compromised? Would he know the right thing to do if they were? How far down this road of being Trent’s medic would he have to travel and where would it end? There, just at the edges of his mind, tucked into a tiny corner, was a thought that gnawed at him. A fear that he would be forced to pick up the scalpel again before this was all over. 

Brock had seen a chest tube inserted in the field years ago, long before he’d joined Bravo. Before even Green Team. But, that felt like that was a lifetime ago and a world far away. He doubted that he remembered any of the exacting medical details. Pushing that memory aside, Brock reminded himself that they weren’t there yet. The rest of Bravo were on their way. The cavalry was coming. 

For now, Trent was drawing breath and his heart was beating. Brock took it as win and logged the vitals and time in the small notebook he carried. He’d also logged the procedure that had been performed, the time, and a brief description of the conditions and materials used. 

Placing the notebook in Trent’s pocket, Brock figured if, for some reason they didn’t make it out of this together, that there would be a record with Trent of what happened. It would be important information for whoever would be treating his brother once they were out of this hell hole. 

With Trent’s other wounds dressed and wrapped, and as he waited for him to regain consciousness, Brock took the opportunity to take stock of his surroundings. 

The building they were in wasn’t particularly large in size. It seemed that it had been used as a restaurant or tavern at some point, but for now was empty of any furniture. The main floor was divided by a half wall that had likely been bar or counter. The kitchen was at the very back of the main floor, separated off from the main space. 

Thankfully, the rear entry had been boarded up and padlocked at some point, both of which remained in place. 

The front entry, however, was unsecured, without a lock, leaving them exposed. A staircase opposite the bar led to a second floor. Brock had quickly cleared the space upon entry. Reluctant to leave Trent alone, but knowing he could use the elevated vantage point to gain a view of his surroundings, Brock carefully moved Trent, groaning with the effort and mindful of the various wounds and tracheotomy tube, the short distance from the open area where he’d performed the procedure to the more enclosed protected area behind the bar. 

It unsettled Brock to leave Trent there lying on the cracked concrete floor behind the bar, but he rationalized that it was only for a few minutes, and that he needed to accomplish a few things. 

First, he needed to get eyes on the street from a higher vantage point. 

From an elevated position on the second floor, he hoped he’d be able to assess some of the surrounding buildings and look for signs of any hostile activity. He had to figure out what he might be up against and what were the most immediate threats. 

Glancing out the windows, doing his best to conceal his own position, Brock’s mind catalogued what he saw. A street full of crumpling, abandoned buildings. Their previous occupants long since run out of town as civil unrest, military coups and instability took hold for more than a decade. But, they weren’t entirely abandoned and Brock could tell he wasn’t alone. He observed some movement in a building on the opposite side of the street, about 7 or 8 houses down. Another building about 10 houses down also looked as though it had been recently occupied. How occupied and by how many, he couldn’t tell. But, at least he knew where the trouble might come from first, and what he would need to warn or protect the rest of Bravo from. 

Second, he had to ensure that Bravo would know where to find them. 

Brock’s attempts to raise the rest of Bravo or Havoc on his own comms had failed. He’d similarly been unsuccessful in using Trent’s comms, which had been obviously damaged by the same shrapnel that tore through his neck. They were currently in a building about 100m or so further down the street, away from the still burning SUV. Rather than requiring Bravo to wonder where they may be, or wasting time searching every structure in between, it would be a hell of a lot easier if the rest of Bravo knew exactly where to find them. 

Placing an infrared strobe on the balcony was the quickest way to alert Havoc to his exact position. The sun had already started to set, and it would likely be dark by the time Bravo arrived. He just had to hope that there wasn’t anyone else out there with night vision that he would be leading directly to him with an open invitation. Nothing like a flashing neon sign inviting the bad guys to come on over. 

Third, the thing he’d been putting off, and hadn’t had the time to address, were his own wounds. He didn’t need, or want, Trent’s eyes on him when he did. Brock was the medic now, he’d take care of it himself. Trent, the patient, didn’t need to know. 

He could tell there were various scrapes and lacerations that marred his arms, hands, and even parts of his own neck and face. They didn’t concern him. He knew they’d only result in a few faint scars that would fade over time. 

Having never been seriously wounded, despite a fairly long career in the military, engaging in intense confrontations in hostile environments across nearly every continent, Brock’s freckled, untattooed, skin was surprisingly free of any tell tales signs of that history. He considered himself to be ungodly lucky, but also knew that he wouldn’t be able to dodge the odds forever. 

There were pains in his chest and lower back, that were more pronounced and growing stronger. He wouldn’t be able to get a look at either without removing his vest. Something that he was not inclined to do. 

Instead, he lifted the ends of his shirt, and checked himself over using a cracked and warped mirror he found in a filthy room that had once likely been a bathroom. He wasn’t surprised to find some bruising that wrapped around him from the top of hip to the left side of his lower back. 

The area was tender to the touch, and he hissed from the pain as he withdrew his fingers. He’d likely have some impressive bruises to show Sonny when this was over. But he knew that no matter how purple, green or blue the bruise; regardless the size, shape or location, to Sonny it would never match the bruising he claimed a steer had once given him during his brief, but illustrious (and mostly fictional) rodeo career. 

Returning to the main floor, Brock’s senses were dialed in. His hearing filtering out the white noise, honing in on every sound. His peripheral vision monitoring the shadows dancing across the walls against the fading sun. Something wasn’t right. He could feel the change in the air around him on his skin. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

Silently approaching the bar area where he’d left Trent, he was surprised to find Trent’s eyes open and staring at him. As they made eye contact, Trent’s eyes moved to the left, and then back, shifting his gaze twice between Brock and the general area of the back room. Trent was telling him what Brock’s intuition had detected. 

They weren’t alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you to everyone for their kudos and reviews! It is always greatly appreciated. I would love to be able to update more frequently. Unfortunately, circumstances right now make it a bit of a challenge. I hope Chapter 5 was worth the wait.


	6. Chapter 6

Even though he couldn’t see it, Brock could feel the threat. It was close. 

What he didn’t know was, how many. With the back entryway padlocked, whoever was here now, had simply waltzed in the front door and right past the bar area where Trent lay, apparently not noticing the injured Seal. Thankfully, Brock had placed his brother sufficiently out of sight, concealed by the height of the bar. With the injuries sustained, Trent was vulnerable and mostly defenseless were the enemy to find him. 

As Bravo 4 and 5 made eye contact, Brock used hand signals to communicate with his brother. Asking the only questions that mattered right now. How many? Armed? Although his responses were weak, and his hands shook slightly, Trent was able to let him know that he’d only seen 2 and that yes, they were both armed. 

Brock didn’t process the information as bad luck or curse the timing of it all. He just accepted the facts and within an instant formulated a response. He needed to eliminate both threats. Quickly. Quietly. His weapon was already equipped with a suppressor, which while not soundless, would help somewhat. Nodding at Trent, he moved away from the bar area and towards the back room, without making a sound. 

Closing the distance between himself and entrance to the back room, Brock could hear some rustling and low voices. Voices speaking in a language he didn’t fully understand. Their tone, however, revealed agitation, frustration and anger. As he entered the room, he was prepared for the first shot that flew past his head, missing its mark by inches and imbedding in the wall beside him. With two quick bursts from his HK-416, Brock took out his would-be assassin. Turning to his left, another two quick bursts took out the remaining target. 

Brock didn’t even have enough time to check the bodies when his instincts screamed there was something coming up behind him. Moving quickly, his body turning back towards the entry way that separated the back room from the rest of the space, he was unable to get a shot off before being knocked off balance by what felt like a mountain of hard-earned muscle, a lifetime of rage, and the hands of a street fighter. 

Despite his own agility, strength, and years of training, both official and unofficial, in hand to hand combat, it had been a while since he had to fight someone up close, in tight quarters. When the first blow landed, Brock knew he was in trouble. Although he was able to get his hands up, both deflecting and defending himself, the second blow to fully connect broke his nose. Momentarily stunned, he staggered backwards and dropped to one knee. He could feel the blood pouring down his face and in the back of this throat. 

Like Mike Tyson famously said, “everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face”. 

_____________________________

From where he lay, Trent had heard the low familiar sound of quick bursts from Brock’s HK-416, followed by the thuds of two bodies dropping to the floor. He didn’t have to see it to know that Brock had easily taken out the two threats. 

With his brain still a little foggy from the explosion, and the emergency trachea resulting in some reduced oxygen flow, it took Trent a few seconds to process the sound of a third pair of boots moving across the main room and towards the back of the building. He could tell by the weight and quick pounding in each step, that they didn’t belong to Brock. 

Desperate to alert Brock to the incoming threat, but hampered by the injuries sustained in the explosion, He could do nothing. And he cursed himself for it. It was tortuous. He couldn't speak. Worse, he couldn't see what was happening. He could only listen helplessly to the roar of what he assumed was the third assailant entering the fray. 

What followed were the clear sounds of a violent struggle. A cacophony of movement. Boots scuffing the ground. Fists connecting painfully with flesh. Forceful thuds and unknown impacts. But, it was the ominous snapping sound of a bone being broken that echoed off the walls, and reverberated in Trent’s mind before settling in the pit of his stomach. He recognized the agonized painful scream that followed. It belonged to Brock. 

Instinctually, Trent’s hands fumbled for his side arm. Struggling to free it from the holster. He had a weapon and Brock needed him. But his body wouldn’t cooperate. He somehow could not get his arms and legs to understand the message that his brain was sending out. 

Get up. Get up. Get up. 

His efforts were interrupted by a savage thunder of sound. A mixture of voices without words, clanging sounds of scattered debris, and what Trent could only imagine were bodies being tackled to the ground, before being replaced by the harrowing gasps of someone fighting for air. Gasping at breath, while fingers and hands scratched against skin and fabric. 

It didn’t take long for the breath sounds to fade. And the thud of something or someone dropping to the ground. 

And then it was quiet. 

It remained quiet for a long time. Long enough for every torturous possibility to run through Trent’s mind. He’d finally worked his sidearm free and grasped it firmly. Maybe he couldn’t stand. He certainly couldn’t walk. His arms wouldn’t even let him crawl. But he’d managed to get himself up in a semi-sitting position, his back leaning up against the wall. With his sidearm in hand, Trent was ready. If the next person to appear in front of him was anyone other than Bravo 5, they’d be dead within a split second. 

His ears were attuned for any noises coming from the back room. Begging for any sound of life. Praying that he’d hear his brother’s voice telling him he was okay. But it remained unbearably quiet. 

Unable to speak, Trent cursed the situation that made it impossible to even call out for his brother. Limited only to his internal monologue, his mind kept repeating one word over and over. 

No. No. No. No.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. I apologize for the delay in getting Chapter 6 finalized and uploaded. I'm very fortunate to still be working, but it's also been quite difficult to find enough time to get back to writing. In good news, Chapter 7 is well under way. It was initially part of this chapter, but I felt in the end it made more sense to split them up. I hope you are all doing well. Thank-you again to everyone who's taken the time to read First Do No Harm so far. For all the support and encouragement (and patience), thank-you very much!


	7. Chapter 7

Clay had been the first to realize something had gone wrong. 

In the lead vehicle with Bravo One, Clay had been coordinating the interdiction. As they neared the target, he tried reaching Bravo Four on coms, to confirm their location and verify that everything was good to go. There was no response. When similar efforts by Bravo Three produced nothing but silence, Havoc relayed the information that they were no longer getting a read from the GPS in Bravo Four and Five’s SUV. 

Processing that information, and with a hard edge in voice, Clay voiced what the rest of Bravo was thinking. 

“Jay, we need to call this mission off. Something’s wrong. I can feel it”. 

In response, Jason’s expression was unreadable. He’d been working very hard over the past few months at trying not to let his emotions guide his decisions. It was something that he knew still needed improvement. But, he also knew that Clay was right. Something was wrong. His brothers were in trouble. He forced down the surge of adrenaline that he felt rush through him, ignoring the little voice inside his head that screamed at him to turn the car around and lay waste to anything that crossed his path, or prevented him from reaching Bravo Four and Five. 

“Havoc, this is Bravo One, can you get ISR over their last known location?”

Eric knew without having to ask, that Lisa would have already made that decision. Glancing at the monitors, he could see that the situation on the ground had changed drastically. There had obviously been an explosion of some sort, and a vehicle was now burning in the street, just a few meters past the spot where the GPS tracker on Bravo Four and Five’s SUV had dropped its signal. There was no movement around the vehicle and none in the street. There was no sign of anyone. As much as it can be, from a grainy black and white image, from 1,500 feet above, it was an eerie sight. 

Lisa’s eyes widened in shock, and she felt Mandy leaning forward to get a better view of the image. 

Mandy was a chameleon. She’d learned at an early age how to adapt to any situation. Molding new personalities to fit in. Being able to read the room and every new person she met had been a game. Something she’d learned from her mother. It made her uniquely qualified for her career. But it also made her feel as though the friendships in her life had been a fraud. Something based on a lie. Or more accurately a falseness. Either about her, who she really was, or what her intentions were. Except when it came to Bravo. Those were friendships that she knew with absolute certainty were real. They were the most important things in her life. Her concern now, that Bravo Four and Five had essentially disappeared in a cloud of smoke, was obvious. 

“Is that their SUV?” 

Lisa could only respond with what they knew. And right now, they knew nothing. “No way to tell for sure”. 

Eric was concerned. But as the man in charge, he needed to know first whether it was possible to complete the interdiction with only two vehicles, while deploying other resources to Trent and Brock’s last known location. 

He was impressed with the maturity Jason demonstrated in actually considering the possibility, taking a moment to work through the options. The old Jason would have let his tunnel vision take charge. However, the new and improved Jason knew and accepted that the mission was the number one priority. Yet, in this case, there was no chance of success without all of Bravo’s resources being available as planned. Giving the go-ahead to abandon the interdiction, Eric felt immensely relieved at the decision. While they all knew and understood that mission came first when the HVT was one of a top priority, the unwritten rule that they lived by would forever be, no one gets left behind. 

“Havoc, find us the quickest way back to their last known location. Alright, boys, eyes on a swivel, no idea what where heading into here, but we’re going to find our guys”. 

_____________________

The first sense to return was his hearing. Which was strange, since the only thing he could hear was silence. No voices. No white noise. Nothing but emptiness. 

While he waited for his vision to return, hopefully bringing with it a return to full consciousness, Brock felt like he was drifting in an alternate reality. He was totally disconnected from himself with no memory of anything. Was this a dream? Where was he? Who was he? Forcing himself to sort through the fragmented bits and pieces, grasping at the edges of memories as they flickered through his consciousness, like flipping through the pages of book, trying to find the memory that would anchor him to the present. Something that felt real. Something that would tell him what the fuck had happened, and what the hell was going on. 

It didn’t take long. The fog began to lift. He could feel it as he came back to himself. There were flashes. The flashes began to form images and memories that he recognized as real. It was coming back to him now. The interdiction. The explosion. Dragging himself out of a burning, overturned SUV. Finding cover. Taking out two would-be assailants, before facing an angry mountain of muscle. Literally having to fight someone up close, hand to hand, for his life. 

The pain returned with that memory as he was nearing full consciousness. His face felt tender. Like raw meat. He suspected it probably looked like it too. He could feel a rawness in his throat and bruising around his neck from where the Mountain (yes, Brock was a Game of Thrones fan), had wrapped his hands around Brock’s neck, nearly crushing his windpipe. 

Yet, it was the pain in his right arm that stole his breath away. The Mountain had snapped his humerus. Brock felt like he could still hear the sound of the break reverberating off the walls and his own animalistic scream that had followed. He wasn’t screaming now. His throat was too sore. His throat. There was something about the thought of his throat that concerned him, and put him even more ill at ease. Yet, he couldn’t quite figure out what that was. He was still a bit dazed. His mind still a little muddled. 

Brock knew he needed to get up. He needed to get up and figure out where he was and what he was dealing with. But, with only one good am, it was a bit of a challenge removing the various limbs belonging to the now deceased Mountain that draped across him. He had felled the Mountain. The empty eyes staring back at him confirmed it. The details were hazy. The bloody Ka-Bar knife, large pool of blood spreading out across the floor and the apparently severed carotid artery told the real story. Despite the room’s oppressive heat, he felt a cold shiver run up his spine. With as much strength as he could muster, he was able to finally shove the Mountain’s thick arms off him, and work himself free. 

As Brock attempted to stand, holding onto a wall for support, another flash of the day’s events revealed itself. Trent. How could he have not remembered sooner? Trent was here. Trent needed him. The adrenaline kicked in. Brock straightened himself up to his full height, cradling his right arm across his chest, he was alert and focused. He moved out of the backroom, and towards the bar area where he’d left his brother lying injured and helpless. He wasn’t sure what he’d find. He had no idea how long he been out following his battle with the Mountain. He prayed to Ray’s god that Trent was exactly where he’d left him.

_____________________________

To Trent it felt like an hour or more had passed since everything went quiet. When he finally heard movement from the backroom, he thought maybe he had imagined it. He forced himself to focus on every sound, every bit of movement. Was it Brock? 

Trent knew the men of Bravo better than he knew anything else. He didn’t need to see them to identify them. He knew the sound of Sonny’s laugh better than his own. He was overly familiar with the little huffing noise Jason made when he was annoyed. He’d gotten use to the whisper-like sound of Brock’s footsteps, who was a near stealth ninja in the way he carried himself. 

Brock didn’t talk much. Everyone knew that. But even the way he moved was quiet. You rarely saw the physical effort behind anything he did. He was a gazelle of a runner, with the agility of a gymnast. 

Blessed with an easy and natural command of his body; and completely devoid of bravado, Brock was often underestimated when it came to physical challenges. He used that to his advantage. Winning countless bets from clueless green teamers and arrogant gym rats who thought they could outrun him or beat him on a parkour course. Brock never felt bad about taking the money from anyone who bet against him. He figured it was an expensive and important lesson they needed to learn. A lesson that even Clay had learned the hard way in his early days. 

Despite his efforts, Trent couldn’t tell for sure from the low scuffling and quiet moans coming from the other room whether it was Brock or not. Tightening his grip on his sidearm, he finally got the answer he’d been desperate for. The voice was raspy and low. But it was Brock. 

“Bravo 4, I’m coming out. Don’t shoot me”. 

Brock finally made his way around the corner and behind the bar to here Trent lay, semi-upright, propped up against the wall. Spitting a bit of blood from between his teeth, and using his one good arm to wipe some of the blood from his broken nose with his sleeve, Brock lowered himself to the ground. Keeping his right arm tucked tight against his chest, and with his gravelly voice sounding unfamiliar to his ears, Brock told his brother what he knew he needed to hear. 

“All tangos are down. Even the big one. I’m fine. I can only imagine what it looks like, but trust me, I’m fine. My nose is broken. Obviously. And the arm too.”

Gesturing to the patches of blood that stained his clothes that he could see had drawn Trent’s attention, Brock was quick to explain. “That’s not mine. Okay, yes, some of it is probably from my nose, but nothing else”. 

Unable to speak, Trent was impressed with how well Brock could read his mind. “How am I feeling? My face hurts and I don’t think I can move my arm. My back is sore from the explosion and I seriously think I’m finally going to impress Sonny with some of the bruising I can feel developing”. Grabbing a hold of Trent’s hand with his one good arm, Brock reassured him. “But, I swear to you brother, I’m good. I promise.” 

“Now, what about you. What aren’t you telling me? You remember the number one rule. You don’t lie to your medic. And I think we’ve already established that I’m the medic here now. I know something’s up, so just point it out to me and let me handle it”. 

Trent thought to himself, aware that the tracheotomy was no longer serving its purpose. “Damn it. He’s a perceptive little shit. Brother, I trust you with my life. But, even if you had two fully functioning arms right now, I’m not sure either one of us is ready for you to learn how to insert your first chest tube”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note. Many apologies for the delay in getting this chapter up. It’s the longest one yet, so I hope that helps earn me some forgiveness. I’ll be back soon. I promise.


End file.
